


Change, Or Lack Thereof

by blacktofade



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, UST-y relationship, solving crimes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-19
Updated: 2010-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktofade/pseuds/blacktofade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Movieverse] Based on <a href="http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/439.html?thread=286903#t286903">THIS</a> prompt from the <a href="http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/"></a><b>sherlockkink</b> meme; <i>Something where they weren't fucking from the start and even though Holmes dreams about it and is stupidly suggestive all the time Watson completely misses it. And it'd be amazingly awesome if Holmes could ride Watson, with Watson just laying back and taking it and having his mind completely blown.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Change, Or Lack Thereof

A man – dark hair, dark eyes, approximately 185 centimetres tall, one leg longer than the other causing a limp when he walks – is crouching behind a stack of wooden crates and has a weapon drawn. Holmes is pressed flat against a brick wall, with Watson as his side, down a side street, running through the possible consequences of him strolling from his hiding place, out into the open.

One scenario: he will take two steps covering four lines of cobbled stones and the crouching man will spot him, raise his pistol and fire. The bullet will miss him, but the loud crack of the weapon will stir a frenzy within the people milling about the market, the ones slowly walking from one stand to the next, haggling and swapping money with merchants. They will run every which way, making it harder for the man to spot him amongst the crowd, but there will be a second shot fired and an innocent lad – perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old – will topple to the ground, holding his side, and watching in horror as blood flows from a wound that won’t be able to be fixed in time to save him. His mother will cry for three days and his father will leave and drink himself to an early grave.

Second scenario: he will trade coats with Watson. Watson will look ridiculous as the sleeves will end at his wrists and the coat will be nowhere near close to closing because his shoulders will be too broad. Watson’s coat will swamp him with material and warmth and he’ll breathe in the familiar smell of his friend when the raised collar rubs against his jaw line. Holmes will take Watson’s hat, despite his complaints of it having only just been fitted for his own head, and then he’ll steal his cane. Without a backwards glance, Holmes will stroll from their hiding place, acting every part the stranger, the person the man with the gun isn’t looking for, and he’ll head up the street, counting the number of times his shoes click against the pavement, towards the crouching man. When he’s close enough, Watson will dart into the road, catching the man’s attention and making him draw his gun, which Holmes will quickly kick out of his hand before delivering a sharp jab to the temple with Watson’s cane, which will render the other man unconscious.

The second scenario is the one they go for, however, not everything goes to plan as Holmes kicks the gun out the man’s hand, but before he can deliver the final blow, the coup de grâce, the man grabs the cane that’s headed for his skull and twists it from Holmes’ grasp. He throws the wooden stick at the wall behind them and it snaps as it bounces off the bricks and lands on the ground. Watson won’t forgive him for that, Holmes thinks as he ducks under the fist the man throws at him. He isn’t quick enough to move out of the way of the other hand that grabs him by the throat and squeezes, making him gasp for a breath that just won’t come, but he tenses his neck, taking some of the pressure off as he brings a foot up at swiftly kicks the man in the chest. The man lets him go as all the air falls out of him, and staggers backwards into a pile of jute sacks filled with sand, which he trips over as he wheezes. While he’s down, Holmes looks to his right to check on Watson, who nods at him, then to the left to find the abandoned pistol, which he notices is laying next to the wall that belongs to some factory that he only just realises is towering over them.

He moves to grab it, but finds himself flying backwards, as the man – who he thought was unconscious, but has apparently righted himself in the brief moments it took Holmes to gather his wits – picks him up by the lapels of Watson’s coat and tosses him into the wooden crates at his back. He can feel them shifting and breaking under his weight and a sharp pain spreads across his shoulders before the remaining crates topple sideways on top of him and he finds himself lost amongst the wood. From what sounds like a very long distance away, there’s a _thump_ and someone lets out a grunt before another _thump_ , though this one sounds more like a body hitting the ground; Holmes rather hopes it isn't Watson. After that, it all drifts away and his pounding skull doesn’t hurt much at all.

*

When he wakes, it’s a different matter altogether, because _everything_ is painful.

He peels his eyes open and glances about; the familiar sight of a desk and a fireplace lets him know that he’s safely back at 221B. He moves to sit up, letting out a small groan as his sore limbs protest, but a firm hand on his chest holds him down. He looks at the hand almost in confusion for a few beats, then follows the arm it’s attached to, up and up and up, until he finds Watson’s face peering down at him.

“Holmes?”

Holmes tries to sit up again, but the hand is still on him, pinning him to his settee he’s reclined upon. He stops trying, flopping back in fatigue, and Watson lets him go.

“Enjoy your nap?” Watson asks, and although it’s light-hearted, Holmes can sense the relief underneath. “Don’t worry, while you were sleeping, I took liberty of knocking out the man who did this to you, and now Lestrade has him safely locked up.”

“Very good,” Holmes says, a faint rasp in his voice; his mouth has dried out and it’s hard to swallow.

Watson holds up a small glass jar full of wood fragments – some almost as big as Holmes’ index finger – and shakes it at him.

“You had a few splinters in your back from the boxes you landed on, but I managed to get them all out and you’re all bandaged up.”

Holmes takes the container and looks at the pieces with interest – that’ll look nice on his mantle, he thinks. He sets it on the floor and glances back at Watson, who’s milling around his side with a dumb waiter loaded with strips of material and small basins of water – one’s murky, a reddish colour, while the other is clear. There’s also a glass of whiskey, a needle, and what looks like one of the strings from Holmes’ violin, however, he knows it has to be something medical, probably a length of catgut.

Watson captures Holmes’ roving gaze and looks at him with an expression he probably gives all his patients.

“You’ll live,” he says, handing the whiskey to Holmes, who knows how this works and quickly tosses it back. While he’s reeling in the burn it leaves as it makes its way to his stomach, Watson moves to kneel at his side. He wets one of the fabric strips and wipes blood off Holmes’ brow, carefully cleaning a gash that makes Holmes’ whole head pound. The air between and around them smells metallic and it makes Holmes’ stomach roll uneasily.

Watson picks out one or two splinters with a pair of tweezers, then gathers up the needle and suture. It pinches as he makes the first stitch, but then his forehead goes strangely numb, like it’s so painful, his body has just given up trying to relay the message to his nervous system. Watson is skilled and it only takes him a few minutes to close the wound and tie the stitches off. He cuts the excess thread off and cleans the bloody skin again.

“Leave it open to the air, don’t get dirt in it, don’t get it wet for the first few days – why am even telling you this, Holmes? I know you won’t listen.”

Holmes shoots him a lopsided smile, which he means to say _thank you_ , and moves to sit up.

“Why don’t you just stay here, Holmes?” Watson suggests with a gentle, but firm push.

“I was hoping to write down all the evidence we have against the man we captured today; it’ll be good to do while the memory is still fresh, don’t you think?”

Watson concedes with a nod, but there’s always a _but_ where Watson is concerned and Holmes knows it’s coming before Watson even opens his mouth.

“But I can do that, Holmes. I will sit right here,” he points to Holmes’ desk, which is just a few metres away, “and you can lie here and rest a while – at least until tea.”

Holmes struggles a moment longer, mostly for show, and then gives in with a huff. Watson pats him on the shoulder gently, taking care to mind his wounds, then rolls the dumb waiter out of the room. Holmes doesn’t see when Watson comes back into the room because he dozes off fairly quickly, an obvious sign that Watson laced his drink with some sort of sedative. The man could poison him and he wouldn’t even realise until too late.

*

He rouses from unconsciousness sometime in the evening to see Watson – holding up to his word – sitting at the desk across from him, scribbling notes onto a piece of paper. There’s a fire in the fireplace crackling madly and it’s warm enough for his eyes to slip closed again easily.

“I am sorry about your cane, Watson,” he mumbles sleepily and the noise of Watson writing stops.

“You can buy me a new one to make up for it,” Watson jokes and Holmes only just remembers to chuckle deep in his throat before drifting back off to sleep.

*

When he next wakes, he finds the room dark – there are no candles lit and the fire has burned itself out from a lack of tending – only the moonlight falling through the window that hasn’t had the curtains pulled across it lightens the room. Watson is missing from his position at the desk and Holmes feels strangely vulnerable. His shirt is missing and he can feel the tightness of the bandages across his back when he shifts. A shadow drifts across the window, blocking the light from the moon.

“Who’s there?” he calls, moving to sit up. A hand falls on his shoulder and pushes him back down, before Watson’s familiar face enters his view. His heart begins to steady itself as he lets out a huff of laughter that’s between relief and exasperation. “I thought it was _my_ job to prowl around in the dark, Watson.”

Watson doesn’t respond and he doesn’t remove his hand from Holmes’ skin. He can feel Watson’s thumb digging into his skin, where he knows Watson only just removed large chunks of wood from, but it doesn’t hurt. Perhaps Watson numbed him while he was sleeping to stop him from waking himself up with the pain every time he moved. Whatever it is, it’s good because Holmes can sit up on his elbows and twist around to look at Watson without it hurting.

Watson shifts until he’s kneeling next to Holmes’ body, similar to his position when he stitched up Holmes’ brow, and Holmes starts to think that he’s come to check on his wounds. He twists his neck to try to glance at the material covering his shoulders.

“There’s no pain, doctor; I think you’ve done a mighty fine job this time. The bandages are still tight and –”

He stops, holding in his breath, as Watson’s hand leaves his shoulder and slides down to his chest, resting between his nipples.

“Watson?” he asks tentatively, letting his eyes travel to Watson’s surprisingly blank face without noticeably turning his head around.  
The hand moves further down his body and when Watson’s fingertips slip under the waistband of his trousers, his head snaps around so quickly it takes a few moments for his eyes to catch up.

“Watson, what are you doing?” he asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer.

Watson slowly looks at him and a lazy grin slides onto his face.

“Isn’t this what you want, Holmes?” he drawls, deep and rough. “Hidden in your subconscious, waiting to come out; aren’t I the one to give you everything you need, everything you desire?” He leans in close and Holmes can smell the same scent that was on Watson’s coat earlier, the one he had found himself breathing in deep, as he finds himself doing now, without even realising. “It would be so easy to just take what you want, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t resist, Holmes, you know I wouldn’t – I never do, not where you’re concerned.”

His traitorous body starts to respond and a furious blush blazes its way across his cheeks, but there’s a force keeping him pinned, frozen, on his elbows, making him watch as Watson’s hand disappears completely inside his clothes. The split second before Watson finally touches him, where he’s half-hard and throwing off heat, like hot coals, his body jolts with pain and the room falls away, leaving a brighter one in its place.

He gasps for air, his chest heaving with the force, which only makes his back hurt more, as he realises he was dreaming and that the fire is still lit, he’s still wearing a shirt, and Watson is still sitting at the desk nearby. He is _definitely_ not by Holmes’ side with his hand down the front of Holmes’ trousers. Holmes quickly glances at his lap and finds himself embarrassingly hard. He pulls his untucked shirt down lower, successfully covering the evident bulge, and tries to catch his breath.

“Are you all right, Holmes?” Watson asks him, and he can’t help the slight whimper he lets out at the sound of Watson’s voice, gravelly from disuse, like the voice the Watson in his dream has used to try to seduce him. He finds himself rocking minutely into thin air for any pressure where he most wants it, but then he stills and shuts his eyes tightly.

Apparently, Watson takes the noise as pain, as he quickly stands and moves to his side, leaning over and pressing a cool hand against Holmes’ forehead – careful of Holmes’ wound – to check for any signs of a fever, but he pulls it away as Holmes lets out another involuntary groan. Watson’s scent begins to invade his nose and his senses feel like they’re on overload. He opens his eyes, almost manically, and shoots a hand out to grab Watson by the collar, pulling him further over him. For a brief moment he thinks he might just kiss him, he finds himself staring at the lips that, in his dream just a moment ago, had told him he could take what he wanted and nothing would stop him, but then he snaps and pushes Watson back with all of his strength, ignoring the pain that flares across his shoulders.

Watson stumbles backwards, knocking into Holmes’ desk and Holmes moves himself off the settee and practically sprints out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His back hurts and his head throbs, but they’re nothing compared to the painful clench of his stomach when he finds the front of his trousers stained dark with an embarrassing dampness.

*

It’s a new case – Lady Van der Sanden has had a piece of jewellery stolen, which wouldn’t usually strike Holmes’ interest, except the only piece of jewellery stolen was a charm bracelet that was hardly worth anything, and the prized diamond – worth at least £300 – sitting next to it was left untouched. Holmes believes it’s linked to the disappearance of a small iron box belonging to Mr. Lefèvre, who’s adamant that it won’t open – he says he’s tried a hundred times – and that it’s not worth anything, but would like it returned to him as it used to belong to his great-great-great grandmother, Pandore. Holmes doesn’t believe in coincidences, but the legend surrounding Pandora’s Box will never fail to tickle his fancy and he finds the case fantastically ironic.

He and Watson are making their way through an abandoned estate, one that was brought to their attention by an anonymous source and might just hold the last clue. Holmes has a good feeling about it, however, the good feelings vanish as he rounds a corner and finds himself with a face full of pistol and he comes to realise it’s just a trap. He doesn’t know where Watson is – they split up somewhere near the kitchens – but he hopes he hasn’t been found, too.

Holmes goes quietly – not that he has much choice in the matter – and the man, who’s wearing a cloth over the lower part of his face to protect his identity, although Holmes already knows who it is, pulls him by the collar of his coat down a hallway that smells like mildew and some kind of dead animal. The man wears the same long black jacket as his father; the inside lining is made of a fine silk, the quality of which can only be found in the fancier boutiques of Paris. There is also the matter of smell of his breath – an exceptional wine – red – that Holmes knows belongs to the man’s family, who own a vineyard in the countryside of France, as he’s been offered a glass of it before. The man holding him hostage is Jacque, the son of Mr. Lefèvre. If the man had opened his mouth, it would have made Holmes’ job a lot easier, as the accent would have given him away instantly, but the same ending is reached, nonetheless.

“What will your father say about all this when he finds out?” Holmes taunts, even though he’s in no position to do so.

Jacque glances at him and Holmes knows he’s been taken by surprise, which is just what he needs, because Jacque lets his guard down for one second – one tiny little second, which is all Holmes needs – and Holmes slaps his arm to the side. Jacque fires his gun, the blast deafening Holmes in one ear momentarily, and the bullet shoots straight into the wall behind them, sending up dust in its wake. An elbow to the temple sends Jacque tumbling to the floor and Holmes takes his weapon and pats the unconscious body down for anything else he might have. As he suspected he would, he finds Lady Van der Sanden’s stolen bracelet in the man’s inner coat pocket, and Mr. Lefèvre’s small stolen box in his outer coat pocket.

The sound of loud footsteps -- obviously belonging to some of Jacque’s henchmen as they hurry to find what the disturbance was about – racing down the main staircase, which is through a door to Holmes’ left, encourages Holmes to hurry his exit up. He turns to the right and dahes through room after room, heading in, what he hopes is the direction of the back door to the mansion. A door down a corridor on his right opens and he only just has time to dart into another room to stop himself from being seen.

However, the room he darts into, is not a room after all; it’s a closet, and a _very_ small, dark one at that. It would be small to begin with, but the fact that there already seems to be someone else occupying the space, makes it even worse. He accidentally drops Mr Lefèvre’s box with a loud clang and finds himself pressed flush against a man’s strong chest, a man that smells rather familiar.

“Holmes, I daresay I hope that’s you,” comes the whispering voice of Watson by his ear.

“It is indeed,” Holmes answers, breathing as quietly as he can against Watson’s throat.

“How did you end up in here, Watson?” Holmes asks with a casual interest.

“I heard footsteps – _your_ footsteps, apparently – and this was the nearest hiding space. What about you?”

“There’s someone just down the hallway; I think they might have seen me.”

They fall silent, both of them holding their breaths as the sound of boots against concrete grows louder, coming towards where they’re hiding. The noise stops and it sounds like one of Jacque’s cronies is standing just outside the door they’re behind. Something knocks on the wall nearby – perhaps the rapping of knuckles, though it sounds rather like the wooden tapping of a cane – and there’s a gentle click and the unmistakeable sound of a sliding key.

 _Oh dear_ , Holmes thinks before the man beyond the wall can say anything.

“Enjoy your time together,” the man croons unpleasantly with a laugh and then footsteps start up again and begin to fade into the distance.

“Holmes, did he – did he just lock the door?”

Holmes lets his forehead flop onto Watson’s shoulder and sighs.

“I believe so, yes,” he says in a resigned voice, and hopes they can escape soon because the scent of Watson is bring back old memories, ones he thought he’d managed to suppress, and his head is starting to hurt.

As if to double check, one of Watson’s arms reaches around Holmes’ body and Holmes can hear the door handle rattle as Watson tries to open it. The door doesn’t budge and Watson retracts the limb.

“What’s the plan?” Watson asks, his moustache rubbing against the shell of Holmes’ ear. Holmes draws his head back, but only succeeds in banging it against the door behind. Without saying anything, Holmes slips Lady Van der Sanden’s charm bracelet into one of the pockets on Watson’s jacket and then with a slightly muffled protest from Watson, tucks the pistol he’s acquired into the waistband of Watson’s trousers. With his hands now free, Holmes can rustle about in his own pockets for the small picklock he knows he has. With it safely clasped in his fist, Holmes sets about trying to turn around in the small space.

He accidentally steps on Watson’s toes more than once and Watson – though he insists that it’s not on purpose – manages to jab him in the ribs with his elbow. Eventually, Holmes finds himself facing the door, but it takes more than a few minutes to locate the keyhole and slip the picklock into it. He jiggles it, hoping it’ll open the door quickly, but when he tries the door handle, it still doesn’t move. It’s hard to focus when he has Watson pressed up against his back, fitting so perfectly down the length of his body that it’s almost like they’re complementary puzzle pieces. Holmes bends at the waist, trying to get closer to the lock to see what he’s doing as he continues to twist the picklock, but all it manages is to knock his head once again into the wood in front of him and push his backside firmly into Watson’s crotch.

Watson grunts and two very warm hands move to grasp at his hips. Watson rolls his body gently into Holmes’, which steals away all of Holmes’ breath and rationality, but Holmes knows the movement can’t be anything other than Watson trying to find a more suitable position, as his shoulder blades are probably digging against the unforgiving wall behind. Holmes shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his thrumming body, because all he can think about is Watson losing control and just grinding into him, and it’s not helping in the slightest. He can feel the hard length of the pistol in Watson’s waistband and he tries not to pretend it’s anything else – specifically, not something belonging to Watson. Each time Watson takes a breath, his chest presses harder against Holmes’ back and Holmes can feel own his body striking up a sudden interest. If he doesn’t get the door open soon, something’s going to happen that he’s going to regret later.

He tenses his body, holding himself completely still and wrenches the picklock so hard that when he hears a loud click he thinks he’s snapped the metal prong and that they’ll never get out of the closet. However, when he tries the door handle, it turns completely and the door swings open, letting in a rush of cool air and the musty smell of the dilapidated house. For a second, neither of them moves; Watson still has a tight grip on Holmes’ waist, and Holmes can’t see straight his head is spinning so much.

After a moment, Watson seems to come to, as he lets go of Holmes, like Holmes is burning his hands through the clothes separating them, and gives Holmes a nudge to make him step from their cramped hiding place. Holmes fastens his coat to hide any incriminating evidence that Watson can hold against him and hopes his flushed face doesn’t give him away as he turns towards his partner. He’s greeted with the sight of Watson’s trousers pulled taut over his backside, as Watson is bent over, picking up Mr Lefèvre’s fallen box.

He hums in the back of his throat appreciatively and tries to cover the sound by coughing loudly. Watson stands upright again and turns towards Holmes, seemingly innocent of everything, and holds the item out to give to Holmes. Holmes takes it, trying to ignore the way their fingers brush in the exchange, and jams it into his pocket without a word. He turns on his heel and sets off down the corridor, listening to the way Watson follows him automatically, his footsteps short and sharp as he hurries to catch up, his cane thudding along with every right footfall.

“Are you all right, Holmes?”

He bites the inside of his cheek severely before answering.

“I am fine, Watson, just dandy.”

He’s not, though, he’s going insane, and it’s all Watson’s – poor, oblivious Watson’s – fault.

*

Two weeks later – just enough time for Holmes to fall back into a comfortable routine with Watson, sans disconcerting and highly inappropriate thoughts about exactly what he’d like to do to his friend – Holmes finds himself suggesting that he and Watson spend a night off at the beerhouse down the end of the street. Watson says _no_ , makes it seem as though he _means no_ , but shows up a quarter of an hour after Holmes plonks himself down on a stool and starts on his first beer of the night.

Watson greets him with a complaint about having to – in his words – _take care of Holmes, as though he’s a child_ , steals Holmes’ beer, which Holmes has only taken one or two sips from, and sits himself on the neighbouring seat. Luckily, Holmes knows Watson lightens up the more alcohol he imbibes, and as soon as one beer is finished, he orders him a second, then a third, then a fourth, and by that time, Watson can’t stop laughing at a joke Holmes makes at the expense of some unfortunate, unknowing fool sitting across the room from them.

Holmes has drunk enough to make him laugh sporadically every time a heavy bout of hilarity washes over Watson, but he’s sober enough to know that he should take Watson home and put him to bed, because it won’t be a pretty sight in the morning when Watson is feeling the not-so-funny aftermath of his drinking.

He leaves money on the counter, enough to cover both of their bills, and stands, gently urging Watson to do the same. Watson staggers, laughing even harder now, and Holmes quickly gathers him up to stop him from falling over. With one of Watson’s arms thrown around Holmes’ neck for stability, they leave the beerhouse and head into the cool London night. The loud chattering, banging of beer bottles against tables, and the scraping of chairs against wooden floors falls away behind them and the only noises around them are the faint clattering of horse hooves in the distance, and the voice of a lady softly singing, her melodious tone drifting from an open window two storeys above their heads.

“’S rather chilly, Holmes, ‘s it not?”

Holmes hums in agreement, though only to appease Watson – he actually thinks it’s more pleasant than anything else. The alcohol warming his blood is enough to take the bitter edge off and Watson leaning warmly against his side removes the rest of the cold.

A silence falls between them until they’re only a few houses away from 221B.

“Mary and I had a fight,” Watson says, his face crumpling in sadness, which catches Holmes off guard; there’s no trace left of the cheerful drunken Watson that had exited the beerhouse laughing and joking.

“Did she yell at you for trimming your moustache with her sewing scissors?”

Watson hiccoughs and it sounds like a laugh, which is what Holmes was aiming to draw out of him.

“It is not a joking matter, Holmes,” Watson slurs at him indignantly.

“No of course not,” Holmes amends to placate Watson while manoeuvring them both carefully up the steps to the front door of 221B. He rings the bell because he knows Mrs. Hudson will still be up – the old biddy _never_ seems to sleep – another reason why she could possibly be a demon or something similar that’s definitely not human.

He hoists more of Watson’s weight onto his shoulders as Watson begins to droop at his side.

“Stay awake, Watson, else we’ll have to carry you, and I for one am not sober enough to do such a thing safely.”

Watson jerks, as though waking suddenly from a dream in which he’s falling and about to hit the ground. In his confusion, he reaches his other arm around Holmes’ chest for balance and ends up with his face in the crook of Holmes’ neck. He mumbles something that’s too muffled by coat for Holmes to hear, and then Watson lets his head flop backwards, his eyes shut and a loose smile on his face.

“It’s nice t’ be drunk,” he murmurs, “there’s a lot less t’ worry ‘bout. You can’t get in trouble,” he finishes as he pushes his face back against Holmes’ throat.

Holmes lets out a snort of laughter and says, “I beg to differ, Watson, there’s a lot of trouble to be had from being intoxicated.”

Holmes untangles an arm and rings the doorbell again, because where is that wretched woman? He’s having difficulty keeping Watson upright because he seems to be slowly, but steadily, sliding down his body again. He moves his fingers into Watson’s open coat and hooks them under his belt, using the leather to pull Watson out of his slouched position. Without thinking, he twists them so that Watson’s back is pressed against the banister of the porch and pins him there with his weight, keeping Watson fixed in place as he continues to wait for Mrs. Hudson to unlock and open the front door.

Holmes glances about, trying to distract himself from the way Watson keeps shifting against him, and a thought suddenly dawns on him.

“Watson, where’s your cane?”

Watson looks up at him and screws his face up in concentration.

“I don’t rem’ber. Beerhouse?”

Holmes nods.

“I’ll go back and get it for you after I get you inside; if it’s not there, I’ll buy you another.”

“Another?” Watson says incredulously, “But you bought the last one, too.”

“Yes, well I distinctly remember it being my fault that it was broken to begin with; it’s only fair.”

Watson hums happily.

“You’re good to me, Holmes, I don’t care what Mary says.” He fits his nose, which is cold from the outside air, into the soft patch of skin under Holmes’ jaw, before he continues. “That’s what we fought about; she said –,” he sighs heavily against Holmes’ flesh and Holmes finds himself wanting Watson to stop torturing him – as Watson’s lips drag against his throat as he speaks – and just press his mouth to the skin completely. “ – she said you were leading me down a road I shouldn’t travel, that you’d end up getting me in serious trouble, but I don’t see how that can be true, Holmes, because all you ever do is look out for me, as I for you. She doesn’t understand us; she just envies our relationship. She doesn’t like how I – ”

For a second, Holmes holds his breath, waiting for Watson to continue, but then Watson tenses against his body and tries to push Holmes away.

“Are you all right, Watson?” Holmes asks, taking a careful step back.

Watson doesn’t respond, just lets go of Holmes, turns around, and is sick over the banister of the stairs, into Mrs. Hudson’s carefully pruned flowerbed.

The front door opens, revealing said landlady in her nightie and slippers, and Holmes finds himself shooting her a look of apology as he rubs Watson’s back soothingly.

Their night off could have gone a lot better.

*

Holmes ties his cravat and slips his coat on as he makes his way out of his room, onto the landing. He stops a moment to pull his hat on, before deciding he probably won’t need it for such a short trip – he’s only going down to Mr. Hancock’s Wood Works &Co, which is just on the corner of Bickenhall street, a five minutes’ walk from their home. He’s going to pick up Watson a new, and much better, cane, since he forgot to go back to look for Watson’s old one.

Speaking of the devil himself, Holmes watches as Watson cautiously makes his way out of his own room, looking faintly green, and stumbles in the direction of the bathroom. When Watson catches sight of Holmes hooking his hat over the end of the banister, he stops, and draws his dressing gown further around his body, as though he’s ashamed of Holmes seeing him so underdressed.

“Where are you off to?” he asks frowning.

Holmes taps his nose to say _it’s a secret_ and turns to leave Watson alone.

“Holmes,” Watson calls out, drawing him back with a voice that sounds oddly panicked. “What I said last night – ”

“We were drunk,” Holmes says, trying to make it easier for Watson, who nods in agreement then nods again to signal the end of their brief conversation.

He tips his head courteously in return, and turns on his heel to head down the stairs, passing by a window that shows him a picture of a dark and rolling sky above London. The front door opens easily under his touch, helped in part by a blustery wind that’s whipping down the street, and he finds himself outside, with the black wood of the door shut firmly at his back before he knows it. As he steps from under the porch cover, he feels the first drops of rain on the top of his head and curses his luck; that’ll teach him to forgo his hat. He flips the collar of his coat up and takes the steps to the street two at a time, before turning left, out of the gale that’s starting to chill him to the bone.

The rain gets heavier with each passing step he takes as he hurries down the street, past other Londoners, who have their heads tilted down to ward off the weather. When he enters the business he’s looking for, the sky seems to open completely and the rain pours down behind him. The bell above the door jingles, sounding happy regardless of the poor weather and Holmes’ rather foul mood, and a stout man with thinning white hair appears from behind a shelf housing different sorts of cigar boxes.

“Back again so soon, sir?” the man asks, recognising him from his last visit not yet two months ago. He runs his eyes over Holmes’ damp person and tuts. “Awful weather we’ve got today, ain’t it?”

“I am looking for a cane,” Holmes says abruptly, “something sturdy, for a man just a few inches taller than myself. It must be clean cut and handsome, like the gentleman I’d like to offer it to.”

The shopkeeper seems put-off by Holmes’ lack of interest in small talk, but nods to acknowledge his request and disappears into what must be the store’s backroom. Holmes glances around, taking special interest in the row of handmade smoking pipes that look finely crafted by a skilled hand. He’s distracted from them as the old man returns grasping three canes, holding them out for Holmes to inspect.

The first it far too thin, one that’s obviously made for beatings; the second is sleek, made of a dark stained oak, which Holmes knows would look fine gripped in Watson’s hand; the third is made of a lighter coloured wood, but it has a curved handle that Holmes knows Watson wouldn’t appreciate. He takes the second cane from the man’s hand carefully, eyeing up the rounded end – perfect for hollowing out and placing a blade within – and the small silver band wrapped around the wood, a hand’s width from the top.

“I’ll take it,” Holmes says, indifferent to the price. The clerk smiles brightly at him and takes the cane to wrap it in a thick brown paper, sealing it with hot wax. Holmes hands over a fistful of paper, which he should probably save to pay this month’s rent with, but feels no regret as the man gives him his change, a handwritten receipt, and the wrapped cane. He slips the first two items into his pockets and keeps the third trapped tightly under his arm.

Holmes leaves the shop, the bell jingling cheerfully in his wake again, and finds himself with a wet foot as he accidentally steps straight into a puddle. He bites his tongue to stop himself from swearing at his misfortune and sets off and a quick pace back to 221B. He can barely see through the heavy rainfall, and every now and then, he has to dodge past another poor stranger hurrying in the opposite direction. His hair sticks uncomfortably down the back of his neck and to his forehead, and it only serves to drip more water into his eyes.

He’s almost home, he can see the light on the porch that’s been lit because of the rain, but then someone grabs his shoulder and removes the cane from under his arm. He takes a breath to call out _thief!_ but before he can get the word out, the air is knocked from his lungs as he’s pushed down an empty side street and into a brick wall. As he gasps for breath, he sucks in rain and starts coughing and spluttering in response. He still hasn’t been able to see his attackers face, but when the man leans in close Holmes can smell him – above the scent of the rain wetting the pavement around them and the dingy London smell that always lingers under the nose – and knows it can’t be anyone else except Watson.

“Couldn’t you have waited until I got inside?” Holmes asks as soon as he’s caught his breath again.

Watson pushes him harder into the wall angrily.

“Where have you been?” he cries sounding rather desperate.

“It was going to be a surprise,” Holmes says, uncertain why Watson’s so angry with him, but his answer only seems to incense Watson more, as he slips his forearm up to Holmes’ collarbone and pins him in place. Holmes could easily escape with a well-placed punch to Watson’s kidney, but he’s curious to know what Watson thinks he’s been up to.

“A surprise?” cries Watson incredulously. “Holmes, this is my _life_ we’re talking about, not some birthday present!”

“But –” Holmes starts before Watson interrupts.

“What makes you think you can just do this? Don’t you care about me enough not to try to ruin my life?”

“Well, I could hardly see it ruining your life; I did it to help you.”

“Help me? How could it possibly help me?” Watson yells incredulously.

“Don’t be daft, Watson; if I didn’t do it, your ailment would continue to hold you back, and where would that get us when a new case comes along?”

“An ailment? I hardly think you can call it that!”

“It’s your Achilles' heel, Watson, even you can’t argue that.”

“My fiancée is not my Achilles’ heel, Holmes!” Watson cries and Holmes suddenly gets the feeling that they’ve been holding two entirely separate conversations. Before he can point this out to Watson, Watson continues. “You say you want to help me, but I know you’ve been to see Mary, and I know you’ve told her everything I said last night, but it’s not true; I take everything back! I was drunk, and in a moment of weakness, I said some reckless things, but you have to believe me when I say I take them back. Mary’s only looking out for my welfare because she believes your intentions are far from innocent, which I know is true, because I’ve seen it myself. You’re not as secretive as you might like to believe, Holmes, and I know your opinion of me has changed within these past few months, but you don’t need to bring Mary into this. This is between _us_ and we need to figure it out _privately_!”

Watson peters out and Holmes is left with the distinct sense that anything he says could be highly awkward. He settles for avoiding the obvious.

“I bought you a cane.”

“Now’s hardly the time, Holmes –”

“No, you are mistaken, Watson; that’s where I went. I didn’t visit Miss Morstan; I went to buy you a new cane.”

Watson suddenly lets him go and it rather feels as though everything – each of Watson’s accidental confessions -- is hovering above their heads, waiting for the moment when gravity pulls them back down on top of them.

“Oh,” is all Watson says, his cheeks tinged with humiliation.

“I just picked it up this morning,” he says tipping his head towards the cane that’s now laying in a puddle near the entranceway of the alley. The paper is ripped completely off, laying nearby, and looking almost as soggy as Holmes feels.

Watson seems to be stuck trying to figure out where everything in life has gone wrong, and, while still mixed up in apparent disorientation, doesn’t try to stop Holmes as he walks over and scoops the cane off the ground, shaking it gently to get the excess water off. He offers it over to Watson, who stares at him dumbly, not even looking at the object in Holmes’ hand, until Holmes jabs him in the shoulder with it gently.

“Here,” Holmes says and Watson finally takes it from him.

“Holmes, forgive me, I—” Watson starts, but Holmes interjects.

“Now, Watson, I’ve bought you a present. Don’t be rude; tell me what you think of it.”

Watson stares at him a minute longer, then looks down at the cane in his clenched fist. He takes a moment to eye up the fine craftsmanship, before resting the end of it on the ground and leaning on it to test the strength and feel of it. It’s the perfect height and is decidedly rather Watson-esque; Holmes is rather pleased with himself – well, as pleased as he can feel after a rather embarrassing mix-up.

“There’s no blade in the top, but I thought that was a job for yourself; make it a little bit more personal for you.”

Watson looks at him, his face open, and when he says _thank you_ , Holmes knows he truly means it, for everything, not just the cane. Holmes clears his throat and looks up into the sky, blinking against the rain that he’d almost forgotten was still falling around them.

“What say you to finding somewhere dryer and nicer smelling? This rather foul smelling alleyway is giving me a headache.” It’s either the bins, or the throbbing lump he can feel on the back of his skull, from where he knocked his head into the wall when Watson first pushed him backwards against the unrelenting bricks.

For once, it’s Watson who leads, walking swiftly out of the alleyway and back onto Baker Street, his new cane tapping against the cobbles with every other step. Holmes regards his friend’s back with a defeatist silence, knowing full well now that everything he wants is everything he can never have.

He slowly follows after Watson, his shoulders heavy from the weight of his drenched coat.

*

When Holmes awakens, he doesn’t know what time it – there’s nothing but darkness surrounding him – but there’s something not quite right, something different about his room, and he keeps his breathing even, imitating sleep, while he tries to gather his bearings.

There’s a smoky scent hanging heavily in the air, as though the logs on the fire have finally burned themselves out; from that information, Holmes estimates that it’s closer to one or two in the morning. There’s a draft, hinting that either the wind outside is strong and blowing down the chimney, or that the bedroom door is open. He can’t hear any whistling, which means it has to be option two, which is unnerving because he shut his door firmly before undressing and falling between the sheets on his bed.

There’s a gentle _snick_ sound and the draft dies away, suggesting that the door is now closed, but whether the person who opened it to begin with is inside or outside of the room, is something Holmes can’t quite figure out. Someone shuffles, moving with an unsteady gait, and everything falls into place. The person is _inside_ the room, and that person is Watson.

Watson edges nearer to where he’s lying, pretending to be asleep, but stops at the foot of the bed.

“I know you’re awake,” he says quietly and Holmes finally opens his eyes and rolls over to look at Watson’s shadowed figure.

“You know me too well, Watson,” he replies, pushing his pillows back against the headboard and sitting up to lean comfortably on them.

Watson drags a nearby chair up to the bedside, then sits with his elbows on his knees and his chin balanced on steepled fingers.

“You’re brooding,” Holmes points out, as he leans over the side of his bed and lights the lamp on his nightstand; it casts a gentle glow over Watson and the rest of the room.

“I’m not,” Watson counters sounding more tired than anything, and when he leans back, letting the light filter across his face, Holmes can see the exhaustion spread over his features.

“Haven’t you slept yet?” Holmes inquires, not really surprised when Watson shakes his head in a silent negative answer.

Watson stares at Holmes with a hollow look and says, “We need to talk about what happened earlier.”

“ _Now_ , Watson? Can’t it wait until the morning?” Holmes finishes his sentence with a yawn, hoping that Watson will get the hint because it’s far too late – or is it considered early, now? – for him to be told that he’s running after something unobtainable and that he should seek healthier outlets for his feelings.

Watson buries his face in his hands, threading all of his fingers into his hair and mussing it up. When he speaks, his voice is muffled by his palms.

“I’ve done something awfully stupid, Holmes,” Watson whispers, “she warned me this would happen, that we would end up too close, and I didn’t listen.” He raises his head and furrows his brow. “I can never seem to resist, Holmes, not where you’re concerned.”

Holmes stomach plummets downwards and it feels as though he’s missed a step on a staircase and there’s a brief moment where he’s just falling. He’s heard Watson tell this to him before, except the last time the words rolled off his tongue, he was dreaming and Watson had one of his hands pushed down Holmes’ trousers. Holmes can’t deal with this, not when his subconscious is starting to bleed into reality. He swings his legs out from under the covers and lets his feet drop to the cool wooden floor.

“Where are you going?” Watson asks standing at the same time as Holmes. “This discussion isn’t over.”

“It is now,” Holmes says, turning to leave. Before he can take more than two steps, Watson catches him by the shoulders and drags him back, pushing him down onto the bed behind, forcing him to sit. The mattress springs creak under his weight and Watson lets go of him abruptly, as though suddenly coming to his senses.

“What have you done to me, Holmes?” Watson asks, but Holmes doesn’t have an answer for him, in fact, he could be asking Watson the same question; it’s funny how life works sometimes.

Watson stands, staring at him as though he has no idea what else to do or say.

“How I feel isn’t right,” he sighs and after a brief pause, Holmes replies carefully.

“And who told you you should think like that?”

“Everyone, Holmes! Mary, the whole of society, even _myself_!”

“And what about me; do I get a say in this?”

Watson laughs derisively.

“I think you’ve done enough, Holmes.”

A heavy silence hangs over them and Watson carefully straightens the collar of his nightshirt, though there’s nothing wrong with it to begin with.

“I should leave –”

“Yes, I think that would be best,” Holmes replies quickly, standing politely as Watson turns and starts heading for the door. Holmes watches the way Watson’s shoulders sag in defeat and he can feel his own start to droop; there are no winners in war, he thinks, just killers and the killed.

He’s about to head to his desk – the idea of sleep fleeting now – where he knows he’s stored something stronger than alcohol that will give him the bliss he needs to see the night through, when he notices that Watson’s stopped, just in front of the doorway. He’s about to ask if everything is okay, when Watson spins around and marches back towards him, a look of intent in his eyes – Holmes can’t decipher it and doesn’t know whether he should step out of Watson’s path or meet him halfway.

Long fingers curl around the back of his head and Watson draws him in, bringing their mouths together for the first kiss Holmes has been waiting months for. Watson’s lips are firm against his own, moving and taking everything Holmes has to offer. It’s irrational and careless and Holmes kind of likes this new side to Watson.

“I don’t care,” Watson says against his lips. “I don’t, I don’t.”

Holmes can’t help but agree.

Without thinking, Holmes slackens his jaw and lets Watson’s probing tongue slip into his mouth. The taste and absolute warmth is dizzying; it’s everything he’s ever wanted from Watson and it distracts him from the way Watson’s moustache tickles his upper lip and nose. After Holmes responds, rolling his tongue against Watson’s own, Watson’s hands run down his body, touching absolutely everywhere they can reach, almost as if Watson can’t quite believe Holmes is really there, kissing him in return.

A distinct lack of air causes Holmes to draw back, gulping in oxygen through a mouth that’s wet and bruised, and he can’t help dropping smaller kisses against Watson’s swollen bottom lip. Watson pulls away, out of his reach, and regards him silently.

“This will either be the best or worst decision of my life,” he mutters, letting his gaze fall to Holmes’ lips, which he quickly captures again. Holmes thinks it _has_ to be the best decision, because he knows that only good things come to those who wait, and he’s be waiting rather a long time. He moves his hands around Watson’s waist and lets his fingers slip under the back of Watson’s nightshirt, pressing against smooth, taut skin. With a gentle tug, he pulls Watson flush against his own body and rubs their hips together. Watson bites his bottom lip sharply at the movement and the mix of pain and pleasure floods straight through his body.

Watson’s own hands glide up to Holmes’ shoulders and without even undoing any fasteners, tugs Holmes’ shirt over his head, forcing their kiss to break once again and Holmes’ hair to stand in all directions. Watson fixes his gaze upon the skin he’s just uncovered and he maps his fingers up and down Holmes’ chest with a delicacy Holmes has only felt when Watson’s tended to him in the past. The muscles in Holmes’ stomach twitch reflexively as Watson sears his fingerprints into the skin there, and Holmes can’t even bring himself to look – has to force himself to watch the expressions flittering across Watson’s face instead – as Watson undoes the drawstring keeping up Holmes’ trousers and lets the loose material slide to the ground. Holmes isn’t wearing anything underneath, but Watson’s reaction – eyes falling half-closed, lips gently parted – tells him that the sight’s not unwelcome.

He’s already half-hard from the sheer anticipation thrumming through his veins, and he can feel himself harden more under Watson’s gaze. With a barely-there touch, Watson drags his fingertips along the underside of his cock and Holmes’ hips buck, trying to find more contact, but all he manages to do is push the sticky head of his erection into the material of Watson’s sleeping garments, leaving a damp smudge in its wake. In what seems to Holmes as an act of mercy, Watson closes his fist around Holmes and strokes, faltering only a couple of times as he tries to find the right pressure and speed.

Moans tumble from Holmes’ lips and Watson licks his way into Holmes’ mouth, pushing words of encouragement straight to the back of Holmes’ throat.

Holmes has never felt so much at once; his senses are being bombarded by everything Watson is doing to him and he knows that if Watson keeps it up, he won’t last long at all. To even the playing field, Holmes moves his hands to the closures of Watson’s nightshirt and undoes them with fumbling fingers and a lack of accuracy. When it’s completely open, he pushes the clothing off Watson’s shoulders and curves his arms around Watson’s own so he can reach to unfasten and push his trousers down.

Watson’s skin is pale and inviting, and he finds his fingers automatically drift to the small patch of hair between Watson’s nipples. Watson hums appreciatively into his mouth then draws away from Holmes completely. The loss of Watson’s hands on him draws a restless groan from Holmes, but he quietens when Watson slips his fingertips into the waistband of his own undergarments and pushes his last piece of clothing off.

Holmes’ eyes dart about as they try to take in every detail of Watson’s body, but stop when Watson catches a hold of his chin and forces him to stare back at him.

“I am not something you can just runaway from in the morning, Holmes, remember that.”

Holmes shuts his eyes briefly, then opens them and nods his consent; he would never be stupid enough to do such a thing to Watson, not now that he finally has him.

Watson keeps a hold of his jaw as he kisses him once more, turning them towards the bed, and gently urging Holmes to recline backwards onto it. The sheets under his back are no longer sleep-warm, but with Watson pressing his heated chest against his own, it doesn’t matter; he has all the warmth he needs.

After dropping one last kiss onto Holmes’ lips, Watson straightens up and turns towards Holmes’ nightstand. He rummages about, picking up and setting glass bottles back down again every now and then, until he finds what he’s looking for. He presses the small phial into Holmes’ palm, but Holmes just pushes it back. He wraps a loose arm around Watson’s neck and draws him down.

Breathlessly, he whispers, “I need you inside me, Watson” into Watson’s ear.

The words seem to take a while to compute for Watson, as he doesn’t move for a few beats. Holmes is just about to repeat his request – just in case Watson didn’t hear the first time – when Watson pulls back and looks as though he’s trying to assess whether Holmes is being serious or not.

“You don’t have to, just because of me,” Watson says and Holmes finds himself needing to prove that he does in fact want it, and isn’t just forcing himself to. He couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather break the law with.

He tugs Watson onto the bed, until he’s hovering tensely over Holmes’ body and Holmes realises the position isn’t going to work for them, not when all he needs is for Watson to lie back and enjoy what he has to offer. With gentle hands, he moves Watson until he’s on his back, head resting on one of Holmes’ pillows, with Holmes kneeling between his splayed legs. Carefully, he takes back the small glass bottle of oil from Watson’s clenched fist and unstoppers it, pouring a generous amount into his palm.

For the first time, Holmes finally touches Watson, folding his hand around Watson’s reddened cock and spreading the lubricant over him with steady strokes. Watson lifts his hips up, pushing further into Holmes’ fist, and Holmes takes pleasure in watching him, as he’s unable to hold himself back. The usually reserved Watson seems to have fallen away completely and in its place, it’s left a man rutting and writhing under his hands, gasping and pleading for more.

Holmes teases him, drawing him close to the edge, then slowing down and watching the thoroughly tormented Watson struggle, clutching helpless at the bedclothes underneath him, as he slips further away from bliss again. When Watson cries out, sobbing for Holmes to end his suffering, Holmes knows he’s far enough gone, and that it’s time to show some compassion.

He lets go of Watson’s leaking cock and tips more oil onto his hand. He sets the vial on the nightstand, then kneels, using his clean hand against Watson’s chest to hold himself up. Carefully, he slips his hand between his legs and pushes one fingertip inside himself. It’s an awkward angle – he can’t seem to get his finger in the right position to hit his prostate, but with Watson watching him, he doesn’t need anything else to help his muscles relax. The second finger is harder to get inside, but he tilts his hips towards Watson’s body and it fits smoothly alongside the other. By the third finger, Holmes’ thighs begin to shake and he knows he needs more than what he can give himself.

With a roll of his hips, he slips his fingers out, wiping them briefly on the sheets below them, before moving his hands to grip Watson’s shoulders so he can slide himself up to straddle Watson’s hips. Watson doesn’t seem to be able to do anything other than stare, which is perfectly fine with Holmes, as he moves a hand to steady Watson’s cock against his entrance and gently lowers himself down onto it.

Watson’s hands fly to Holmes’ waist and Holmes loses himself in the feeling of Watson stretching him out even more, loving the burn that only just pushes its way through the haze of pleasure. He moves his hand back to Watson’s shoulder and presses down onto the last inch or so, letting himself rest in Watson’s lap for a moment. All he can focus on is Watson’s flushed face and the way he bites his lip to stop himself from crying out. He doesn’t want Watson to hold back, though; he wants Watson to call out his name and grunt and groan and yell loud enough to wake the neighbours; he wants to see Watson come completely undone, at his doing.

Holmes lifts himself up slightly only to fall back down, revelling in the feel of how easily Watson slides in and out of him. He continues to rise and fall, arching his back for a better angle, until Watson nudges at his prostate and he finds himself riding Watson’s cock with abandon, trying to keep a hold of the flare of pleasure that sweeps over him.

The thrill spreading through Holmes’ body is like nothing he’s ever felt before and, from the looks of it, Watson seems to be experiencing the same feelings, as he’s not even trying to hold back his gasps, too caught up in the moment. Holmes can’t stop himself as he bends, still rocking in Watson’s lap, and slips his mouth over the one that’s red and raw and oh-so-inviting beneath him. Watson kisses back with too much tongue and teeth, but Holmes is beyond caring; his cock is pressed between both of their stomachs, dripping freely onto Watson’s skin, and it feels like every single one of his nerves is alight.

Watson pushes upwards, interrupting the rhythm Holmes has created, but Holmes does nothing but take it. The sound of their bodies slipping against one another is the only thing Holmes can hear until he breaks away from Watson’s mouth and Watson starts panting and begging for more again. He obliges, running his tongue along Watson’s jaw, then down his throat, where he trails love bites and wet kisses. Holmes can feel Watson’s skin vibrating against his mouth and he realises it’s his own name that’s being shaken onto his tongue. With one last nip, he pulls away and makes eye contact with Watson, who can’t seem to do anything but repeat Holmes’ name.

Holmes pulls up, almost all the way off, before falling back down, and that’s all it takes before Watson shudders underneath him, calling out his name into the silent room. The spread of warmth inside him, leaking out of him, is enough to make him slip his hand down between his legs and stroke himself to completion, coming just moments after Watson.

It feels as though he’s being pulled out of his own body into nothing but whiteness, before he comes crashing back down into his skin, with a sudden sharpness that leaves him shaking and gasping for breath. Watson’s chest rises and falls rapidly under his palm and he can feel Watson’s heart fluttering madly, caged within his ribs.

After a moment or two, Holmes finally gathers enough strength to pull himself off of Watson, who’s softened and slipped most of the way out already anyway, and crumples into the space beside him on the bed. Neither of them says anything, both still trying to catch their breaths, but the silence is anything but awkward; Holmes is satiated and sleepy and the happiest he’s felt in a long while, despite being sweaty and sticky. Before long, Watson shifts and Holmes is almost lead to believe he’s getting off the bed, but then all he does is lean over and blow out the light – Holmes can always count on Watson to make sure he doesn’t burn their house down.

When Watson lies back down, he rolls onto his side and pulls Holmes against him and a sudden feeling of comfort washes over Holmes. Watson makes him feel safe and warm and, most of all, less alone. With a contented sigh and a gentle kiss against Watson’s shoulder, Holmes lets himself drift off, thinking that tonight might be the night he actually sleeps though until dawn.

*

A bright sliver of light shines directly into Holmes’ face and everything behind his eyelids goes a peach colour. He grunts sleepily and shifts, rolling onto his stomach and tucking his head into the softness of his pillow. His whole body aches pleasantly and everything that happened the night before rushes back to him. He presses his smile into the cloth under his face because he knows they have a whole morning to themselves, and Holmes has a fair few ideas about how they should spend it.

With a searching hand, Holmes gropes for the body that should be warm and resting next to his, but he finds nothing but cool sheets. His heart picks up speed and his mind automatically jumps to the worst scenario it can – something where Watson, too embarrassed to face Holmes in the morning, decides to collect up a few personal belongings and leave 221B for good.

He peels his eyes open and lifts his head up slightly; there’s no sign of Watson in his bed, just rumpled sheets and a dent in the other pillow, where he had once lain. He moves onto his back and glances about the gently lit room, but there’s nothing, nobody else except himself.

With a small sigh of disappointment, Holmes drags the pillow he isn’t using over his face and wonders whether he should just smother himself now, to do himself a favour. The material pushing against his nose smells distinctly like Watson, which only seems to make things worse. He thinks about what Watson said to him – telling him that he wasn’t to run away and leave Watson alone – and wonders if Watson has decided to eat his own words and flee. Slightly upset, he tosses the pillow over the side of the bed and, after stretching, slips out from under the sheets.

His whole body feels grimy and he’s in dire need of a bath, so he slips on a pair underwear he finds in his dresser, and heads towards the door, set on hiding himself away in the bathroom for the rest of the day, for a lack of anything better to do, now that Watson’s gone.

He takes his dressing gown, which is hanging on a hook next to the door, and slips it on, tying the material belt in a tight knot around his waist to keep it secure. The door handle is cool under his palm, but before he can twist it, it turns by itself and the door opens slowly towards him.

“Oh!” is Watson’s reaction when he finds Holmes just the other side of the wood and Holmes takes a step back in surprise. He takes in Watson’s appearance – neatly combed hair, smartly pressed collar, tidily buttoned waistcoat, and spotlessly clean trousers. If Holmes didn’t know any better, he’d never believe that beneath Watson’s neat and collected outward appearance, there’s the same man who spent the night with him.

“You were sleeping and I didn’t want to disturb you,” Watson says before nodding towards the tray Holmes only just notices is resting on one palm. “I brought tea.”

Now it’s Holmes’ turn to say, “Oh.”

He steps out of Watson’s way and shuts the door behind them, following after Watson, who moves to set the tray on Holmes’ desk and starts pouring out two cups of steaming hot drink. Watson takes one of the cups and saucer, leaving Holmes to take the other, and sits carefully at the end of Holmes’ settee. Holmes watches him take careful sips, giving nothing away as to what he’s thinking, and Holmes finds himself grappling for anything to hold onto; it feels like he’s thrown himself off the cliffs of Dover and he’s falling and falling and –

“Holmes, your tea will go cold if all you do is stare at it.”

Watson’s voice cuts into his reverie and he blinks to clear his head. Without thinking, he goes with what feels right, taking the cup – without the saucer, which is a habit Holmes knows always irritates Watson – and moves to sit on the floor at Watson’s feet, leaning casually against both the settee and Watson’s legs.

His mouth burns when he takes too big of a swallow of his drink, but that’s the way he always drinks his tea – Watson always tells him, in his I-am-a-doctor-and-I-know-what’s-best voice that he’ll have no tastebuds left, but Holmes knows it’s a lie; he knows that Watson just gets fed up of listening to him complaining that everything tastes like rubber afterwards.

“Watson?”

“Yes, Holmes?”

“What will you tell Miss Morstan?”

The question seems to catch Watson off guard, but when he sighs, Holmes can tell that it’s not the first time he’s thought about it.

“The truth; that’s the least she deserves, but I think the worst part is that she probably won’t be surprised. She knows you, Holmes,” he sighs again, as though he’s frustrated with himself, “and she knows me. Something tells me that she might be more disappointed than shocked.”

Watson drains what’s left in his teacup and sets it on the open seat next to him.

“What are you telling _yourself_?” Holmes asks curiously.

“Apart from the obvious: that I must be completely insane?” Watson shrugs, then catches Holmes by surprise as he runs his fingers through Holmes’ hair. “That nothing will change between us; you’ll still be a pain, and I’ll still get annoyed at everything you do.”

“However, Watson, you may have failed to take into account that we might have to move, as I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will soon grow weary with us. You are, after all, quite loud when you’re being ravished.”

Watson lets out a sharp snort of protest

“Holmes, that is hardly –” he starts, but Holmes interrupts.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of, Watson; sometimes I forget my own prowess and –”

This time it’s Watson’s turn to cut him off, as he slips his hand under Holmes’ jaw to turn his head towards him.

“Be quiet, Holmes,” Watson tells him, leaning in to press tea-warmed lips against Holmes’ own and Holmes gladly complies. He’s glad to know that some things will never change, no matter what.

**FIN**


End file.
